Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1)

by Adam Copeland

  Father Benis removed the strip from Patrick’s head, pursed his lips and read the graduations.

  He hmm’ed and jotted a note on a piece of paper. He then consulted a very large tome resting open on the table. Patrick’s skepticism grew.

  “My origins, my relations to other peoples? You said that you may be able to tell me what sort of people I come from by looking at the size and shape of my head. Is that true?”

  Benis perused the pages and chewed on his thumbnail. “Perhaps.”

  Patrick leaned over and examined the book that held Benis’ attention. It was a monstrously huge instance of leather bound workmanship, reinforced by what looked like copper or brass strips and studs. The pages were covered in Latin characters, though in an unfamiliar calligraphy. Instead of the usual flowery script, the characters were rigid and pointy. What little he could understand of it had to do with the Roman conquest of Germania hundreds of years ago. A charcoal image on the page depicted a heavily bearded man with a stern appearance.

  “Looks nothing like me,” Patrick smiled.

  The priest also smiled. “No, but it does look a good bit like our own resident Teutons, Wolfgang von Fiescher and Eirech Bischoff.”

  “Then why are you consulting this?”

  “Because,” Benis said, turning the page of the book. “Julius Caesar was a meticulous note-taker and often commented on the similarities and differences of the cultures he fought―which was virtually all of them. That, and their histories, culture, religions, et cetera. ‘Know thy enemy,’ I suppose.”

  Benis plucked from the table an instrument composed of two metal sticks held together at their ends. This he manipulated such that they moved on a hinge where they joined, spreading the sticks further apart. The hinge was an arc of metal with many slashes and some writing on it. Patrick had seen such devices used by generals in their campaign tents. At first he couldn’t fathom what the priest was going to do with such a thing with regard to his head, but Benis held an arm of the instrument to each of his temples, noted the position of the central arc, and then performed the same procedure on his cheekbones.

  While Benis wrote some more notes on his paper, Patrick gestured at the book. “This was written by Julius Caesar?”

  “Not exactly,” Benis moved back to the open book and placed the metal instrument on another charcoal image. “It is a copy of the works of the Caesar, as well as the Roman historian Tacitus and some works of unnamed authors. It is a fascinating piece. I know not of any other such work outside of Avalon. Its craftsmanship almost rivals that of the Book of Columba at the Abbey of Kells in your own Eire. So I’ve heard.” He recorded a line of numbers. “So tell me more of this vision you experienced in the den of the wolf. What did this maiden look like? Are you certain she said you were like her?”

  “I’m not certain of anything anymore. I’m not sure if it even happened. I don’t remember how I got there, and I certainly don’t remember how I returned. The last thing I remember was that I was hopelessly lost.”

  “But her appearance?”

  Patrick shrugged, hands held out open. “Beautiful, full of light…?”

  Benis smiled. “I suppose if one asked Mary and the Magdalene to describe the appearance of the man they met at the open tomb of Christ, they too would be hard pressed to recall.”

  “Are you saying this woman was an angel?”

  Father Benis placed a gentle hand on Patrick’s shoulder and gazed upon him with his warm grey eyes. “If anybody asks, especially Father Hugh, that is the story I would stick with. The official Church stance on the sightings here on Avalon is that they are demons. Father Hugh is not particularly fond of the practice by the locals of putting out saucers of milk at night to appease the Fair Folk.”

  “But you’re a priest of the Church.”

  “I hope I’ve been a priest and on Avalon long enough to know the difference between good, evil, and indifferent creatures. Mostly so, anyway. And it seems to me the majority of the fantastical sightings, such as the Huntsman, are harmless ghosts. Or the poor lost children of God. Even more lost than we humans, but not necessarily any more good or evil. I hear from the villagers that for every prank played on them by a mischievous fey, a lost object turns up or a wayward child brought home safely.” Benis shrugged.

  “So the Fair Folk are like us; some good, some bad.”

  “Precisely.”

  “So, is that true also of the giants you spoke of earlier? Or the god-beings?”

  “I would imagine, though I can’t think of too many instances where the character in question was ‘good,’” Benis replied. “More often than not they are depicted as hostile, as with Goliath. Even the ‘gods’ appear petty and cruel, using their powers to exploit mankind rather than aid them. Which is strange, really, because you’d think that immortal creatures would be full of wisdom after long years of living.” Benis sighed and turned several pages of the tome. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Even the long-lived patriarchs of the Bible often displayed less-than-perfect behavior.”

  “Like Moses,” Patrick said. “Not being allowed to enter the Promised Land because of his transgressions.”

  Benis smiled. “Very good. I see somebody wasn’t entirely asleep during Mass. Noah is a good example as well; becoming drunk on wine and passing out naked in front of his family.”

  “That was a common occurrence in my household,” Patrick said, and they laughed. “But not all mighty men of legend were wicked,” he added. “Finn McCool was a hero, a protector of his people who fought Buganes.”

  The priest raised his eyebrows. “Who? Against what?”

  Patrick smiled. “Finn McCool, legendary warrior of Eire, leader of the Fianna, mighty warriors all. It was said they too were giants.”

  “And these ‘Buganes?’”

  “They definitely were giants, ogres rather. Covered in hair and sharp teeth.”

  “Hmph, sounds fascinating.”

  Patrick leaned over and regarded the book’s pages. “Does the slope of my skull, or whatever, give you any thoughts about what the maiden might have meant?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Benis said. “My theory of comparing what I know of your country folk, and the pictures associated with the legends of these historical writings, has yielded very little. It certainly would be nice if I could convince McFowler and McCabe to submit to the same procedure―then I could at least start building a catalog of Gaelic folk such as yourself. But they seem awfully superstitious and wary of my intentions.”

  Patrick laughed. “They’re probably afraid you will try to make them wash and comb their hair as part of the process.”

  Benis turned another page or two. “So, Sir Gawain, is there anything else I can help you with? Are you having visions of anything else?” Something in Patrick’s face must have caught the priest’s attention, for he raised an eyebrow. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”

  “No, not really,” Patrick responded too quickly.

  Benis made a face as if Patrick were a child who had just told a fib. “Come now, Sir Knight, if I can take your confessions in confidence as a priest, I can hear whatever else may be going on in that sloped skull of yours. Besides, what could be more shocking than the tale of the maiden in the wolf’s den?”

  Patrick smiled sheepishly. “Oh, you’d be surprised.”

  Father Benis smiled warmly. “So surprise me.”

  So, in so many words, Patrick told Father Benis about the Apparition―when it first appeared, and how it hounded him. He felt his face heat as he did so. The priest listened thoughtfully, and took a seat at the table. He was silent for a while.

  “And you say this has been going on since before you came to Avalon?”

  Patrick nodded.

  “My first thought would be that it is a demon or evil spirit. It has not harmed you? Said anything? Done anything?”

  Patrick shook his head. “Only follows, points at me, and shows up at the most inconvenient of times.” Benis was de
ep in thought, and rubbed his jaw. Patrick had visions of being cast out of the Avangarde for having hid such visions. “What am I to do?” he said finally.

  It doesn't sound like any demon I've heard of, or portent or omen for that matter, the priest responded.And since it hasn't harmed you or anyone else, I don't think any immediate action is necessary―but if it gives any indication of true harm, something must be done.

  “What might that be?”

  Benis took a deep breath. “Exorcism.”

  Patrick leaned over and placed his head in his hands, elbows on knees. He said through his hands, “And, I’m sure that will mean letting Father Hugh and Sir Mark know.”

  “Yes,” Father Benis said. “I understand your concern―that they might think you are a liability to the safety of the Guests. I don’t think that you are. As you have pointed out, the thing has done no harm. Perhaps with a lot of prayer, it will go away on its own. No need for extraordinary measures that will involve others.”

  Patrick sat back in his chair and leaned on his elbow on the table. “Prayer,” he said distantly, chewing his thumbnail. “God and I haven’t spoken much lately.”

  “Perhaps it's time again.” Father Benis fixed sympathetic eyes on the Irishman.

  A snapping noise indicated that a piece of thumbnail had come off in Patrick’s mouth. “I was hoping God would have revealed some mysteries to me by now, not thrown more at me.”

  “Nothing will be revealed if you don’t talk about it.” A silence hung between them. “Give it some thought,” Benis finally said. “And if this apparition proves dangerous, let me know immediately. For your sake, we will have to approach Father Hugh. In the meantime, your secret is safe with me.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  The sound of approaching footsteps drew their attention away from their table. The Viscount Loki approached, cloaked in his dark cape, framed by the outer hallway’s darkness as he passed through the doorway. The shadows, his dark cape, his black hair, made it seem as if a pale face were floating towards them. This illusion vanished as the nobleman stepped into the pool of candlelight surrounding their table.

  “Good evening.” Loki greeted, baring perfectly straight teeth. Like the rest of the man’s features, they seemed a bit sharp and elongated.

  Sir Gawain and Father Benis returned the greeting.

  “Are you, perchance, the keep librarian?” Loki addressed the robed priest.

  “I am,” Benis replied, bowing slightly. “At your service.”

  “Excellent. I was told by...well, by this fine gentleman here,” Loki reacted as if he had just noticed that Patrick was present, “that I could find documents, writings and such about the Isle of Avalon here.”

  Benis smiled. “Why yes, just over there on that shelf is a lovely copy of The Creed of Greensprings, some records of commerce with the village, journals of keep affairs since the time Wolfgang von Fiescher has been Grand Master, and some drawings of the keep itself, which look to me rather like construction plans…”

  Loki waved off these descriptions. “I was thinking more along the lines of maps, descriptions of locations, even local stories.”

  Allowing the two to discuss library business, Patrick turned his attention to the book he and Father Benis had been studying.

  “No, no we don’t have much in the way of that sort of thing. You’re more than welcome to…” the priest was saying, but was distracted when Loki abruptly reached over and snagged one corner of the book and dragged it to his side of the table.

  “What do we have here?” he said, turning the pages of the book, oblivious to Patrick’s indignant stare and Benis’ shock.

  “That’s a work of historical matters outside of Avalon,” Benis said.

  And not at all what you are looking for, Patrick added, snagging the book back. When he did their eyes met. The oily depths of Loki's gaze announced his resentment of the act. He held Patrick in his stare―it was as if a shutter on a lamp had opened, and rather than let light out, it radiated a cold ray of extreme discomfort. A barely perceptible sneer formed on his mouth. Patrick's cheeks flushed, and he dropped his gaze back to the book, feeling foolish for being upset at losing a juvenile test of wills.

  No sooner had he done so than Loki was again all smiles and cheerfulness, addressing Father Benis. “Construction plans you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I suppose I can entertain myself with those for a while. Thank you, Father, and good evening.”

  With that, in a brisk flash of black and lavender lined cape, Loki headed for the shelves pointed out by the priest. His walking stick clicked on the flagstones.

  “What a disagreeable fellow,” Father Benis mumbled.

  “He gives me an uneasy feeling every time he comes around, too.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you are just intimidated by his overbearing personality, as I am.”

  “No, more than that,” Patrick insisted, sounding slightly offended, or perhaps embarrassed, at having his discomfort openly pointed out. “When he is around, it makes my skin literally crawl. It feels like...” He struggled for descriptive words. “Like the room is out of sorts when he is in it.”

  Father Benis raised is eyebrows. “I’m not sure what to make of that. But I do know we should endeavor to do as Jesus suggested: love our neighbors, as we do ourselves.”

  #

  “Now my darling,” Loki said sweetly to the young female Guest. Her name was Beatrice, or some such. She was the sort of girl who talked about inane things, but she was nice to look at. “Hold the stick thusly...” He maneuvered behind the girl, reached his arms around her, and gently pushed up on her elbows so that her outstretched arms rose a little. He took his time in doing so, allowing his arms to rub against her sides and to inhale her sweet smell. He leaned in closer and put his mouth close to her ear and whispered softly, “Keep it just like that.” He slid away from her.

  The girl stood smiling, back straight, arms held out. She held in her hands a tree branch that had been stripped of leaves and bark. It forked in two, forming a Y. Each dainty hand held a fork as if they were handles. The pointing end drooped towards the earth, weighed down by a string and bronze weight.

  Loki approached three other Lady Guests, who were standing by watching the proceedings, whose chatter sounded like the clucking of hens. Loki retrieved a handkerchief from one of them and returned to the girl with the stick and bob. He stood behind her and placed the cloth across her eyes, fixing it neatly behind her head.

  “Let’s see if you fare better than your companions.” He took a step away from her. “And remember, the whole time you must picture in your mind the hidden object. Focus in the idea of something hidden.”

  Minion stood next to Loki, frowning. “Master, I don't understand why we're going through the trouble of having the ladies do this. We could do a much quicker and more accurate job ourselves.”

  Loki smiled. “Subterfuge, my dear Minion, subterfuge. We would look suspicious carrying out this activity, especially here.” Loki gestured around with only his chin. They stood on the cobblestones of the main courtyard just inside the gate, near the fountain. Many people were going about their business. Some, like the guards on the wall, occasionally stopped to watch the peculiar goings-on. The girl with the stick walked blindfolded, arms held out almost like a sleepwalker. “With the young ladies involved, it’s just an innocent game. Nobody would ever suspect we're searching for a secret door. The library has yet to yield anything of my true goal, but the construction plans gave mention to a secret door near here. Most useful!”

  “Uh-oh,” Minion said, looking behind them. Loki turned to see what had attracted Minion's attention. Coming toward them, walking at a leisurely pace with a diplomatic smile, was Father Hugh Constant and a retinue of acolytes trailing behind him.

  “Hmph,” Loki sniffed. “The God-squad approach-eth.”

  As he neared, Father Hugh took in the scene. “Good morning, Viscount,” he said
congenially, bowing.

  “And to you, Father, and what a lovely morning it is.”

  “Yes, lovely enough to be giving lessons out o' doors. And what kind of lessons might you be giving?”

  “Oh, I wouldn't call them lessons, really.” Loki's smile was just as congenial and diplomatic as the priest's. He made a sweeping gesture over the gathered Ladies and theircomrade who had just poked an innocent by-stander in the eye with her stick without knowing it. “More like fun and games.”

  “I believe it's called 'dowsing,' a technique used for finding lost or hidden objects or something generally desired to be found. Superstitious villagers, for instance, use it for finding water on their property in order to dig a well.”

  “Right you are!” Loki exclaimed. “Why, Father, I had no idea you were so learned a man on such a variety of topics.”

  “Well, yes, but unfortunately this particular practice is viewed by the Church as more akin to witchcraft than fun and games,” Hugh said, his smile dissolving and his tone taking on the quality of one delivering bad news. “And since this is a Church-sanctioned establishment, I am going to have to ask you to find another game.”

  Loki's mouth dropped and his eyes widened. Witchcraft? Nonsense, we were simply playing a game of find the hidden brooch, not casting spells or fashioning charms.

  Hugh raised a hand to calm Loki's escalating voice. “No doubt your intentions are well-meant, but yes, if a divining process other than imploring the Almighty or requesting the intercession of one of His angels or saints is employed, then the Church must call it suspect.”

  “Look!” one of the Ladies cried. “She's heading straight to where I went.”

  “As I did, but neither of us found the brooch there,” said another girl. “There must be a stone or something we did not look under.”

  Loki looked at the blindfolded girl. She was tentatively walking towards the fountain where it connected to the keep wall. His expression brightened and he turned back to the assembled men of the cloth. “Well, we can’t be offending the Lord, now can we?” He turned and clapped his hands. “That's enough ladies; let's call it a day, shall we?”